


Nearly Human

by Derowen



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crime, Golems, Humanity, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-20 02:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12423177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Derowen/pseuds/Derowen
Summary: Constable Sylver Nightnday has 'Just A Few Anger Issues' according to Constable Dorfl, but she has good reason.Someone has smashed up the last three privatley owned golems in the city and allmost noone cares. Is it because they aren't really alive? or is there something more sinister at work? On top of that several male officers won't stop asking her out for a drink she doesn't want.But controlling her anger will prove essential, otherwise her career won't be the only thing on the line.Constable Dorfl doesn't drink, but still, he'd like to ask Sylver for one. Words in the heart cannot be taken, but how do you give them to someone when murders, mobs and mystery keep getting in the way? Life isn't easy when you have to make up your own words.Is nearly human enough?And through it all is Samuel Vimes on the trail of a murderer who's victims are societies lowest.In the darkest dark there is something turning the city against itself.





	1. The Particular

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I've done my best here, but I am not Sir Terry. Certain writing devices, such as footnotes etc, I won't attempt to use, because if I do it it will just end up looking stupid.
> 
> 2\. I am primarily an audiobook user, so I have done my best to look up all the correct spelling etc. If I get something wrong, let me know.
> 
> 3\. Likewise I have no maps and so on, so all of this is coming out of my head from my knowledge of the books.
> 
> 4\. Chapters are only really there as placemarkers for where I stopped writing.  
> Enjoy!

Sylver Nightnday sat with her back pressed up against a wall of cold brick, evaluating the life choices she had made to get to this point. Where oh where had she gone wrong?

　

The things that covered her body could only loosely be referred to as clothing. They were of indeterminate colour and shape, but unfortunately not of indeterminate smell, though this only seemed to bother anyone unwise enough to come near her. Sylver's sense of smell had long since left the city in protest. Unspeakable grime covered her hands, face and was liberally streaked through her matted brown hair. One shaking hand clutched a bottle of Bearhugger's Whiskey that still had a few inches of liquid at the bottom, while the other was hidden inside her rags, presumably for warmth. Occasionally she twitched and mumbled to herself, but passers by paid her no mind. They never did. That's why she was here.

　

She was watching.

　

Waiting.

　

And while she waited she reviewed her life thus far.

　

If any passer by were to risk total nasal collapse and approach within a few feet of Sylver, they may have just been able to see the tiny green imp that perched on her shoulder, hidden from view by the tangled mass that was probably her hair.

　

They may also have been able to hear the tiny voice that whined in a high-pitched squeak, "are we done yet?"

　

If their eyes hadn't begun to water by that point and the wax begun melting in said bystander's ears from the close contact, they may then have the opportunity to observe that Sylver's muttered litany and wild gestures did not falter, but nevertheless she gave an answer to the little creature's query.

　

"ah! I knew there were footprints in the cream! I didn't take my eye off it Mrs Jenkins, I swear to you blind I does! Be quiet, Wilfred. I'll tell you when we're done. And then she goes and tells me they're all out of fingers! Fingers I tell you!"

　

Sylver gave a wild bark of laughter, drank straight from the whiskey bottle and settled back down to her apparent examination of the pavement on the other side of the street. A door opening in the house opposite did not seem to disturb Sylver too much. She gave the departing figure a darting glance and lowered her head again. However the little imp on her shoulder heard the sharp whisper from her lips.

　

"Now, Wilfred," she hissed, and the tiny flash of green was a blur as it crossed the street and climbed up a drainpipe to get a good look at whoever was leaving.

　

Several minutes passed by before the imp was climbing Sylver's rags once more to perch atop her shoulder and hide itself in her hair. "Got it," it confirmed, "you've got half an hour before my memory deletes the picture. The house is empty."

　

"Was it him?" Sylver asked, almost jumping to her feet in haste.

　

"Of course it was," replied Wilfred, this time sounding a little bored, "who else would you be expecting?"

　

"Oh shut up," ordered Sylver absent mindedly as she hurried down a side street that turned into a dingy back alley where another entrance to the same establishment presented itself. It smelled of rubbish and worse.

　

In her haste, Sylver almost tripped over what she was looking for. She managed to stop her wayward feet just in time, kneeling down beside the familiar receptacle that told her whoever lived here had their rubbish collected by Harry King. Well, not actually Harry King. Harry King hadn't actually handled waste personally for several years now, but rather those who worked for him.

　

"Yes!" she cried, punching the air. Putting on a pare of gloves, she set to work quickly, sorting through the latest scraps. There was the usual mess of takeaway food boxes, beer bottles and newspapers she had come to expect, but while lifting up a reinforced cardboard box she suspected had once contained a clatchian extra hot, Sylver spotted the bundle of papers.

　

"Get under the door and see if you can have a look around the living room will you?" Sylver ordered the imp, as she levered out the bundle of papers with two careful fingers, "I don't want to have to break in, but I will recommend it if there's anything good."

　

She felt Wilfred spring from her shoulder, but never saw the imp as it flattened itself to the ground to get beneath the back door. She was paying too much attention to her find. The papers were torn, which was to be expected. However they were done in that half-hearted way of idiots who think that watchmen couldn't be bothered with jigsaw puzzles. One of their more talented officers would be able to piece these together. Sylver was sure of it.

　

"Just once it'd be nice to think they might offer a challenge," mused Sylver with a mournful sigh.

　

She took out a waterproof leather bag from some recess of her filthy rags and dump the bundle into it. She probed the nauseating stink of the collected rubbish once again and accidentally disturbed a live rat that had happily been munching on the long dead remains of some half-eaten Agatean dinner. It chittered and lept straight at her face and Sylver couldn't help but let out a disgusted yelp as she backed off quickly, trying to bat the rodent aside with her free hand. It landed on all fours, squeaked, and skittered off into the darkness.

　

"bugger!" exclaimed Sylver, "Did I mention that I hate my job?"

　

"today?" came the voice of the imp as it slid back out under the door, "Several times already. He's planning to run, I'd say. Got a suitcase packed and an overnight bag. Several weapons on display in the hall, but one is bloody. Got a picture."

　

"Now there's some good news," said the girl matter of factly, "for us at least. Not so much him."

　

"You've got 24 minutes to get me back to the office so I can paint them," Wilfred reminded her as she stood up.

　

"Okay, Okay," sighed Sylver, "Climb up and hold on."

　

She only felt the slightest of pressure as the magical creature settled itself in her hair once more. Holding her whiskey bottle and the bag containing her evidence, Lance-Constable Sylver Nightnday stepped out from the alley, intending on a slow but short walk to Pseudopolis Yard, as that was the only building that had decent enough showering facilities. In any case, she'd need Igor's help to get some of the hair off.

　

"'ere, mind sharing?"

　

Sylver looked up at the voice, remembering to stay in character as the slightly mad, horribly stinking beggar girl. Only the former was difficult. Two men had stepped out in front of her, barring her way forward. One of them was indicating her bottle of bearhugger's that still contained some liquid.

　

"whassat? whassat?" she said confusedly, shuffling from side to side as if staying still was far too much an effort. She let her eyes slowly focus on the men, and then meekly handed over the bottle. Sometimes you could get away if you just complied with haste. Unfortunately, this probably wasn't going to be one of those times. Especially when the man now opening the bottle found out he was actually drinking cold tea.

Before Sylver could turn and dash though, the second man put out a hand and let it rest on her shoulder. This really wasn't going her way, and if these fools didn't get out of her face soon she might have to make them.

　

"What's the hurry then eh?" he said with the menacing laugh of someone who knows he's got something nasty in store for you, "don't be rushing off now...I'm Not really at home with young... ladies making sudden moves."

　

Sylver wasn't quite sure she looked young, or like a lady at all. This was just one of those things big men say to try and intimidate people who are smaller and who seem weaker than they are.

　

Sadly, he had the goods to back up the intimidation though. He pulled a knife and a leer simultaneously. "What's in the bag then?"

　

There was a spluttering and gagging sound from the first man. "Ye gods this is just tea!" he shouted to the street at large, "cold bleedin' tea!" Sylver took this as her queue and rushed forward, hitting both men with such force that she pushed them apart. Both made a grab for her but missed, grabbing hold of one another instead while Sylver legged it down another side street.

 

"20 minutes," reminded Wilfred from his vantage point as Sylver's feet slapped against the cobbles.

　

"Yes yes," she said absent mindedly as she sped up a little at the sounds of pursuit from behind. Damn it! Why didn't they just find some other weakling to pick on? This wasn't going to be easy. She ducked in and out of alleys, zig-zagged across streets, but the two men kept up with her. At last she spotted a horsebus crossing the street ahead and so she put on an extra burst of speed and lept onto the back, clinging for dear life as she glanced back at her would-be attackers. Oh good. They were both armed now. Fantastic.

　

That was when the dwarf swung an axe at her, shouting something about filthy old freeloading crones.

　

Swearing vengeance on whoever the dwarf was, Sylver dropped back into the street and hit the ground running. There was no help for it. She was going to need some form of assistance to get out of this one. She took out her whistle and blue hard. During the day the watch had things like homing pigeons and mobile clacks communication, but the night was still the domain of the old bell and whistle. Almost instantly she heard answering clangs and shrieks, and Sylver adjusted her path so that she was running for what sounded like the closest.

　

"The watch?" she heard one man wheeze.

　

"Can't be," she heard the other reply, "you seen a watchman that looks like 'er?"

　

Sylver had to save all of her energy for running. She could hear the sounds of boots on cobblestones in front of her and she thought she heard the recognisable tread of one of the golem officers. That was what she needed now. Someone with some serious strength behind them. Definitely not because these two needed to feel some pain. Oh no, she wasn't at all spiteful.

　

Out of one street she saw two dwarf officers sprinting toward her.

　

"Cable Street!" she called to them, catching their bemused expressions as she flew passed.

　

There was the sound of a thud from behind. It was the kind of sound you got when a very large man gets hit over the head by a piece of pottery. It was followed by the kind of sound you got when another man falls over the one who's just been laid out by being hit over the head.

 

Sylver skidded to a sudden halt and turned. Mercifully she made out the hulking shape and glowing eyes of one of the watch's five golems stepping out of a convenient alley.

　

"Is that you, Sylver?" A second watchman appeared out of the gloom carrying a sword as if a little unsure what to do with it. He had a voice that pressed little buttons in Sylver's brain that told her to blow out all the candles and hide under her bed until the knocking at the door went away.

　

"Yes Visit," she said between deep breaths as she doubled over in exhaustion, "believe me I wish I wasn't right now." That was good. It meant that the golem was Dorfl, and he always seemed to have an uncanny knack for knowing where she was.

　

"You wish you weren't here? Or that you weren't Sylver?" asked Visit in the perpetually sing-song voice of those who shine with the inner light of the grace of religion. Sylver could practically feel the quote from one of Visit's holy books hammering to be let out into the world to do some good.

　

"both. Ugh.," replied Sylver simply as she slumped to the floor while listening to the various complaints from her lungs, feet and legs.

　

"'ere," complained the only attacker who was conscious, "she ain't no watchman. She can't be! Look at 'er! Hey! gimme that back!"

　

This last was to the golem, who had removed a length of led pipe from his grasp with effortless ease and bent it into a pretty knotted pattern and bowled it back up the street with a muted clank.

　

"She Can Be," replied the solemn voice of constable Dorfl, the city's first freed golem, "She Is Lance-Constable Sylver Nightnday And She Is A Member Of The Cable Street Division."

　

"Read it and weep," added Sylver as she pinned her badge to her chest, "Ow!" She cried out as her leg twinged and she doubled over coughing breathlessly again, pushing the pin of her badge through her rags and into her skin. She was fully aware she wasn't presenting the best picture to her attackers. "Aaaaagh! Damn it all!"

　

"What? Plain Clothes? Well, how were we supposed to know that? It's like entrapment or somethin'."

　

"Woe be unto those who lose themselves unto a life of violence and depravity," put in constable Visit, causing Sylver to sigh just a little. "It is better to have never lived at all than to live a life full of sin and unkindness. For does not the book of Om say that it is indeed a far better thing to strike thyself than to striketh at the heart of your neighbour."

　

"It's not like she even is our neighbour," complained the conscious attacker, who had acquired that ruffled look people got when they were frisked by a golem.

　

"Is this really the right time?" interjected Sylver, trying to stand on shaking legs as she watched the golem removing various weaponry from the unconscious man and rendering them unusable.

　

"All times are right times for sharing the holy word of Om, lance-constable," Constable Visit replied reprovingly.

　

"Are Any Times Right For Assisting Your Partner Disarm And Arrest Criminals In Alleyways?" asked Dorfl.

　

Sylver ignored this as she leaned against a wall for support while she continued to attempt to catch her breath. She really needed to get better at the running thing.

　

"And If A Person Never Lived At All," rumbled Dorfl as the dwarf officers joined their little group, "Then How Exactly Would They Know They Were Better Off?"

　

"Well, obviously it's just a figure of speech," Visit began, heading into debate mode at the speed of lightning as he was so used to doing with the golem, but thankfully one of the dwarfs intervened.

　

"Er...Is Everything alright here then?"

　

Sylver thought they were probably Constables Jerker Jerkersson and Iorek Ironbark, but she was never really sure with dwarfs. Their armour, helmets, beards and assortments of weapons tended to get in the way of individuality.

　

The probable Constable Ironbark made the mistake of approaching Sylver and offering her a hand up, but backed away fast, covering his eyes and alternating between gagging and swearing in heavy dwarfish as the smell of Sylver's current disguise presumably burned his nostrils and made his head spin.

　

"Sorry," Sylver sheepishly told the unfortunate dwarf, "really it's best that you stay over there....gods I really need a shower."

　

"Several!" cried the disgusted Ironbark, "remind me never to apply for a transfer to Cable Street."

　

Just then, the little green imp chose that moment to appear on her arm, hopping up and down to get her attention.

　

"yes? What is it now?" demanded Sylver shortly.

　

"urm,..." Stammered the imp, frozen with one foot in the air at the annoyed expression on her face, "Urm....you Have nine minutes to get me back to the yard so I can paint these pictures."

　

Sylver shot upwards and onto her feet like a flash. What on earth had she been sitting about for! "Damn and blast!" she cried to the world in general.

　

The other four officers looked at her quizzically.

　

"I'm on a time limit," she explained quickly, "I've got pictures that need to be painted and evidence that needs to be handed over. Our suspect is about to do a midnight run, I think."

　

Dorfl looked from the two men on the ground, to the other officers and back to Sylver. Then, in one fluid movement, he scooped Sylver up off her feet and nearly tossed her over his shoulder. Sylver had been half ready for it, but it still knocked all the wind out of her, and Wilfred was forced to leap back to her hair in order not to be thrown to the ground.

　

"Some people might actually give some warning first," Sylver called as Dorfl got up to his fastest speed, "they might think it was....you Know...polite..."

　

Sylver sighed resignedly and clung on as best she could to the golem's shoulder. Though she knew he would never drop her or allow her to come to any harm, it was nevertheless a bumpy and uncomfortable ride. Golems had a special kind of logic. They were highly moral beings, but their morality was of a very specific nature that few humans could comprehend. This was mostly because they weren't actually alive. Some human notions such as tact and politeness simply passed them by, but oddly other traits such as empathy, compassion and patience, were things they often had in abundance.

　

Dorfl's reasoning was like this.

　

'There Is A problem That I Can Fix. So I Should Fix It Straight Away. No More Problem.'

　

Any thought of discussing Sylver's own wishes in this regard wouldn't have crossed his mind, simply because he believed she wouldn't mind in the slightest.

　

Sylver didn't really mind all that much as she watched the street fly passed. It was odd that golems could run like that though. Usually they plodded around methodically and slowly, but they had a real turn of speed when they needed it. They just didn't feel they needed it most of the time.

　

If it hadn't actually been for Dorfl, Sylver probably wouldn't have a job right now and would be wearing rags out of necessity rather than volunteering to do so for the sake of tracking down a murder suspect.

　

One month ago she had been working for the Golem Trust, but since most of the golems in the city had now been freed, the trust was winding down its business. Soon even Adora Belle Dearheart would be out of a job. Only a few golems had still to buy themselves back from the trust with their labour and most of the rest were freely experiencing the golem equivalent of the joy of self-ownership, though to be fair, most golems didn't understand the concept of joy in the first place, but they were trying to learn.

　

Sylver had enjoyed her work for the trust. She had developed a sincere respect and liking for the golems too. They didn't fill the world with mindless inane chatter and when they did choose to speak, they were invariably always worth listening to. Golems chose their words carefully, mostly because they first had to consider how they felt about the subject relative to their understanding of actual feeling. They were literal beings and for the most part, Sylver found them much more tolerable than most living people.

　

You had to be a special kind of person to work for the trust. To the newly freed golems you needed to be patient, understanding and able to twist your head around golem logic. On the other hand some of the other people that the trust had dealt with required that any employee be ruthless, quick-witted and uncompromising. Sylver had been all of these, though perhaps not as ruthless as Ms Dearheart could be. She didn't have the right footwear to be that kind of scary for a start.

　

But her patience and caring nature had distinguished her among the trust golems, and she now couldn't walk the city streets without at least one tall clay figure hailing her. In a small way it made her feel sort of special, not to mention if she ever needed any heavy lifting done, she had a number of names to draw upon.

　

However Sylver had proven herself more than just the gentle natured young girl who checked up on the trust golems to insure that they felt valued and weren't being mistreated. She also proved herself quite adept at freeing those golems who's owners were rather reluctant to part with them. It wasn't that their owners weren't being offered enough money. The golems generally quietly paid whatever was asked without question or complaint. They were property. They had accepted the fact that the only way to acquire their freedom was through paying the price. It had enraged Sylver that even when certain people were offered five times the original sum they had paid, they still refused to part with their 'property' out of spite and nastiness.

　

Such was the Morporkian businessman. Fuelled by an anger that seemed to come from the depths of her very soul, Sylver had dressed herself down so as not to be noticed and followed them around over a weekend to see if she couldn't find something to bargain with. Everyone had secrets didn't they?

　

Well, these men certainly had. Sylver arrived at the office of the first man at nine sharp and laid a painted image on his desk.

　

"A good likeness, wouldn't you say?" she had commented innocently, "It's such a pity the woman you're groping there doesn't resemble your wife, but instead a well known seamstress who's picture is in the Times every other week."

　

The man had spluttered abuse at her and the people she worked for, but Sylver had cut across him coolly.

　

"And before you get any crazy ideas, they," she sketched quotation marks in the air, "had nothing to do with it. If you think they'd do something like this then you don't know them very well. They have morals and ethics and inconvenient standards which means that something like this," she indicated the picture between them, "is totally beyond them. So they just quietly keep raising the price so you can decline because you're a complete bastard. I don't have any of these golem-esque morals though. So I can do what I like. So, do we have a deal?"

　

"Yes! Yes!" cried the besuited man, "Take them. They're yours for nothing! Just don't let this ever see the light of day! Good god! If she divorces me I'll lose most of the business! It's in our contract!"

　

"No," said Sylver taking out a piece of paper from an inside pocket. "Were it up to me, I would. But like I've explained. The people I work for have rules and they stand by their agreements. They believe they are property, so must buy themselves back with the money they earn. The last offer they made to you was $4500. And although it's not what you deserve, it's what you get." Sylver shook her head with dramatic sadness, "There really is no justice in the world."

　

She laid the bank notes on the table with the picture. "This is for the purchase of Spinner 15 and Mentsh."

　

"what?" said the nervous man in front of her, "I get the money...and The picture?"

　

"Yes," answered Sylver, as if she were speaking to a five year old who had just lost a game, "And I get two golems. Or at least, the trust does."

　

"and...that's Really it?"

　

"It really is all I am here for," replied Sylver, relenting just a little.

　

"Do they pay you well?" he had asked after a pause.

　

"Probably better than you pay your factory workers, but not especially, no, but that's not the be all and end all of why I work for them."

　

She had left the factory floor ten minutes later with two voiceless golems in toe. When she brought them back to the trust, it was to the general surprise of almost everyone, and while she managed to avoid giving the truth to Ms Dearheart, she could not avoid giving it to Dorfl. He was the founder of the trust and one of her employers. It was a lot more than that though. You did not lie to the golems. Not just because they were paying your wages and they could and probably would fire you, but also because their respect and regard was something very tangible indeed. After spending any amount of time working with them, one of the last things you wanted to do was prove yourself untrustworthy. The disappointment would be too much to bare.

　

"Tell Me How This Was Not Blackmail?" Dorfl had asked her gravely.

　

Sylver took a deep breath and martialed her argument. "well, I never actually threatened to do anything with the picture," she told him carefully, "I didn't have to say anything. His imagination did it all for him. That was actually my only copy. He could have destroyed it and I would have had no backup at all."

　

"And If He Had Refused?"

　

"Then that would have been that. At least I would have tried everything. I'd never have actually done anything with the picture. I just wanted him to think I could."

　

Sylver had pulled similar stunts twice more, resulting in the release of five more golems to the trust, before Dorfl spoke to her about it again. This time, in no uncertain terms, he told her she must stop. It was for her own safety. The last thing they wanted was for her to suddenly gain the attention of the assassins guild as revenge for finding out the wrong information about the wrong sort of people. The trust was used to dealing with threats, but most of them had been on a level of things like bricks being thrown through windows, graffiti painted over doors or angry groups of people shouting abuse on the streets. Not many people attacked golems now that they could defend themselves and that there were hundreds of free ones on the streets. Having the blood of their human employees on their hands though was not a responsibility they were prepared to accept, and Sylver respected their decision.

　

It wasn't until the day after the break-in however that Dorfl floated the idea of her becoming a member of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch.

　

A rowdy, drunken mob, armed to the teeth with sledgehammers and other implements designed to cause severe damage with a long reach, had broken in to the headquarters of the trust while Sylver and three of the freed golems were inside. The golems had acted with intense speed that would have been unbelievable to those used to their usual careful slowness. Pushing Sylver behind them, they formed a solid barrier between the angry mob and their less indestructable human employee. Sylver, on the other hand, was having none of it. She slipped under the arm of one of her would-be protectors, and ran full tilt at one of the mob's more vocal members. He was a man who must have been about four times her size and who carried a massive poleaxe. While the increasingly sobering intruders were looking around wondering what to do with this unplanned for turn of events, Sylver ducked low under the weapons, barrelled into the front man's legs and hit him hard on the knee. He reeled back with a cry of agony, staggered into the man behind him, who dropped a heavy hammer on the next man's foot. The three of them landed in a painful heap on the floor while others raced to get out of the way of the crazy looking, wild-eyed girl who seemed hell bent on destruction. She only stopped when the handle of a sledgehammer caught her on the side of the head, making her see stars. By that time though, the golems had made short work of the rest of them. Tearing weapons from their shocked hands and quickly turning the tables in their favour. Most fled, but a few were smart enough not to try and instead waited to be handed over to the watch.

　

The next day Sylver had woken up to a splitting headache and a visit from the trust's only other human employee and with her the trust's founder. Adora belle Dearheart had gone on at length about extreme acts of stupidity, while all three of them knew she herself would probably have done the same thing if given half a chance and was probably a lot more annoyed that she hadn't had the opportunity to smack a few foolish drunks around herself.

　

Dorfl, however, had remained silent. Sylver felt that she was nevertheless being examined minutely by those fiery eyes.

　

"Why Did You Do It?" he had rumbled at her, once Ms dearheart had at last stopped to draw breath.

　

Sylver looked incredulously up at the golem's impassive face. She had thought that that was obvious.

　

"Well, firstly," she began, counting on her fingers, "I don't like being thought of as weak and needing protection. Secondly, I don't think it's fair that three other beings should be expected to lay down their..." She searched for an appropriate word, "their...lives Just because of a set of instructions in their heads that says I'm more important. And lastly, those bastards really just deserved it. They were totally fine with the idea of smashing up a few of you lot because they don't see golems as anything other than furniture, but they didn't know what to do when I ran at them. So I just thought it was the right thing to do at the time, you know?"

　

Dorfl had held up his massive hand to forestall any objections from Adora Belle, and considered the girl with the bandaged head carefully. "You Should Still Count Yourself Very Lucky That You Weren't Seriously Hurt," he said slowly, "But Since After This Week You Will be Looking For Employment, I Would Like To Suggest That You Consider Joining The City Watch. You Are Quick On Your Feet And Many Of The Free Golems Have Recognised Your Dedication To Freedom And Your Willingness To Help Others, Even If You Have Just A Few Anger Issues."

　

Sylver said nothing. She wasn't sure what she should say. Ms Dearheart had plenty to say, however.

　

"What? You actually want to give her more opportunities to get her head smashed in?"

　

The golem paused for a moment as if thinking and then said, "Yes," and left it at that.

　

And that was why Sylver Nightnday was being carried into the Pseudopolis Yard watchhouse by an eight foot tall clay man filled with fire. Dorfl had even taken her to Commander Vimes himself for an interview. He had been impressed with her ability to blend into the background and become an insignificant part of the city landscape. He had also been impressed with her talent for kicking people twice her size in the face. He thought she might make a 'good copper' and according to the golem, this was extremely high praise indeed.

　

Sylver felt herself being gently lowered to the floor and she tried, unsuccessfully at first, to separate her interlocked hands. She grumbled to herself and eventually managed to wrench them apart. She staggered backwards unsteadily, and Dorfl reached out a hand to grab her shoulder and stop her from falling over backwards.

　

"Thanks," she said nodding at the huge pottery figure, "you," she ordered, snapping her fingers at the imp in her hair, "get on with it then."

　

Wilfred hopped down from Sylver's shoulder and shot a sparkly magical grin at the golem, "very nice. Even two minutes to spare!" it squeaked as it darted off to a desk containing several paintbrushes, an assortment of paints and an easel.

　

"Is that you Lance-Constable Nightnday?" came a voice from half way up the stairs.

　

Sylver looked up to see Commander Vimes and Inspector Pessimal standing on the landing above.

She pushed some hair out of her eyes and nodded wearily.

　

"I'd forgotten what you looked like," commented the commander, "Were you that filthy when you left?"

　

"No sir," Sylver answered carefully, "but I have been on the streets for two days, sir. Dirt kind of adds up"

 

"Yes. Right. Did you get it?" asked the commander, clearly wanting to get to the point.

　

"Yes, sir. But he's going to run. Tonight probably."

　

"You got actual evidence? Remembering the little talk we had about clues and the like?" Commander Vimes moved down the stairs, closely followed by the little inspector.

　

"A picture of him leaving the house and one of his collection of weapons, one's bloody," replied Sylver carefully, "there's also this."

　

She took out the leather bag with the torn up papers inside. They're torn, but I doubt that will present a problem for the right kind of person," she said, approaching the foot of the stairs.

　

"No indeed," agreed Inspector Pessimal, sounding almost overjoyed at the idea, "I do like a puzzle Lance-Constable."

　

Sylver tossed him the bag from a safe distance. He caught it deftly and pulled out a paper, sniffing suspiciously at the torn up remains. "where did you get this?"

　

"One of Harry King's buckets, sir. You might want some gloves on before you play around with it."

　

The inspector had turned a nasty shade of sickly green and replaced the paper hurriedly into the depths of the bag as the commander looked on in amused horror.

　

"Well done Constable Nightnday," began Vimes with a heavy sigh, "yes, that's right. You deserve it. Normally we'd make a little more of a fuss about finishing your training, but we just don't have the time. Andre over at Cable Street thinks you're ready in any case. Go and get cleaned up. Get a good night's sleep and be back here tomorrow for some real coppering."

　

There was a smattering of half-hearted applause that was quickly cut off by more bellowed orders from their commander.

　

"Sergeant Detritus?"

　

"Yes sir!" there was a clang as the massive troll saluted.

　

"Get a squad together and head to the address I gave you earlier in Money Trap Lane. Take Bluejohn and Flint with you, and whoever else is about and not got anything else to do. We're leaving in five minutes."

　

Sylver ignored the flurry of activity that began even before the commander's voice had died away. Mercifully her job was done and she was free to slink off to track down Igor to remove the more stubborn aspects of her beggar costume. At least 'real coppering' didn't involve fake hair and theatrical paint, she hoped.

 


	2. Dark Discoveries

The newly promoted constable Nightnday appeared in the doorway of the canteen half an hour later. She was restored to her usual self again by the ministrations of Constable Igor and a very long shower had done the rest, or at least all the rest that mattered. It was quite odd that someone of Sylver's appearance could be as good as she was at undercover work. People should be able to recognise her. However they didn't because of the simple fact that there was no disguise she was unwilling to take on. She happily rubbed all manner of filth into her hair, put on whatever clothes she was asked to, no matter the condition and once even had herself sprayed with cat's urine, though she was never really sure where Igor had gotten so much of it and hadn't the nerve to ask.

Now though, she looked normal. Normal wasn't a word ever used to describe her though. She wasn't a lot taller than the tallest dwarf, but she was slightly built. People sometimes got the impression that a good windstorm would send her spiralling away. She wasn't beautiful, at least by the standards of establishments like the Pink PussyCat Club, who liked their girls tall, tanned and a certain largeness in important places. Instead she was probably most aptly categorised as striking. It was the hair that caught the attention of most people. Sylver's hair was the envy of anyone who ever had to direct a commercial for haircare products. What they achieved with powerful fans and special effects, Sylver did simply by tilting her head slightly in any direction. Her hair was also the colour of fire. Usually this was just a not-so-complicated metaphor for someone who had violently ginger hair. In Sylver's case though, it really did mean the colour of flame. That was to say, that her hair had all the subtleties of a burning fire. Deep reds, shades of orange, gold and everything in between. When she moved her head it looked as if she was burning. She kept her hair in check by tying it in a tight plat most days as occasionally people had mistakenly thought she was ablaze and thrown buckets of water down on her to put her out. Her eyes were a silver-grey with about the same subtlety as her hair. The few times laughter was permitted to reach them, they sparkled, but you had to be close to see their real beauty, and Sylver never let anyone that close if she could help it.

Right now she wore her uniform, her leather cape draped over her arm as she entered the private little haven of the on-duty watchmen who nevertheless need a space away from the main hall and it's masses of complaining citizens so that they can gulp down a hot cup of tar-like tea and play pin the punctuation on the sentence as they attempt to write up their reports.

"Congratulations Constable Sylver," said the troll Constable Brick as she passed him by, "you is movin' up in der world no mistake. dat's life in der watch for you."

Sylver nodded and smiled. Brick was runty by troll standards, though considerably better fed since he had been adopted by Detritus and Ruby. He had been a gutter troll, to hear him tell it, who spent his time whacked out on any kind of troll drugs he could get his hands on. But he was a tough and reliable officer now, and a real credit to the force, particularly on Saturday nights when the drunk and disorderly charges stacked up. One of the best things though was that he never...

"Care to go for a drink later and celebrate then, Sylver?" 

He never did that. Sylver looked around for the source of the question. And her eyes met the amused gaze of Corporal Ping, who at least had the decency to look repentant as she eyeballed him.

It had become somewhat of an office inside joke. It was a well known fact that, practically as soon as she had walked in the door, several of the male officers and at least one female one had begun to carry a torch for the new recruit with the whirlwind hair, and that was only before several watchman had witnessed her giving Special-Constable Andy 'Two Swords' Hancock a serious concussion by punching him on the ear during her first week of training. Since that incident though, Sylver got an invitation to go for a drink before or after almost every shift. Most of the offers she got now weren't really all that serious and were only sarcastic attempts to let her know they were all still here and still available. She had declined them all though, much to the consternation of several human officers, two dwarves and one troll. She knew there was a book doing the rounds. People were all betting on which particular officer might make Sylver relent. The stakes were quite high, but it wasn't like Sylver had opened someone elses locker and looked or anything.

"A drink?" asked Sylver vaguely, nailing Ping upright with a look, "I expect a drink to celebrate would be in order, perhaps."

"Really....? asked the surprised Corporal, looking just a little hopeful, "I was just about to finish for the night but I can wait and we..."

"ooooh,..." sighed Sylver in mock realisation, "you mean with you. In that case, no. Definitely not. I'll just go along to the bucket after I write up this report. Wasn't that what you meant?" she inquired sweetly, just for the pure pleasure of watching him squirm.

Sylver heard a snigger somewhere off to the side, but ignored it and made her way to the back of the room where she could see Constables Visit and Dorfl attempting to reassemble their evenings on paper while determinately not looking at her.

"what did you do with my two newest friends then?" she asked, daring either of them to bring up what had happened in the last twenty seconds. She laid a sheet of writing paper on the table along with three pictures with the paint still drying.

Constable Visit coughed, as if he were choking down some question and said instead, "They're in the cells for the night. The Commander can have a yell at them later and decide what he wants to do with them. I left them some reading material in the hopes that they would think about their actions and how to better themselves."

Sylver nodded and sucked on her pencil thoughtfully before beginning to write a few sentences on what she had learned by following their murder suspect for a couple of days. A night stuck in the cells with only one of Washpot's pamphlets to read? Well it was punishment of a sort. Maybe she should suggest that he go down and pray with them for a bit, though perhaps that would be too much punishment even for them. And, in spite of his fanatical devotion to his god, Sylver knew that deep down, underneath all the quotes and religious texts, Visit was actually a decent enough person, so she tried to avoid teasing, Even if it was so easy sometimes.

Sylver looked over at the silent bulk of the golem, delicately holding his pencil between two fingers. It always amazed Sylver how they could perform tasks that required a gentle touch as well as bowl trolls down the street who refuse to put their hands up after the first warning. His own report was already three pages long. This was because he felt the need to morally justify every action he took. She glanced down at the top page and read:

'By This Time The Troll Known As Chalcedony Was Unfortunately Very Much Under The Influence Of The Troll Drug Known As Scrape,  
Thus He Was Unable To Listen To A Well Reasoned Argument As To Why He Should Desist From Attempting To Bite Off My Arm. In Order To Avoid Essential Repair I Was Forced To Throw Him Against A brick Wall Twice. This caused Him To Stop In The Attempt At Eating My Arm, And Instead Swing His Club At ME. Whereby I Cautioned Him By Hitting Him Over The Head For His Own Safety.'

Grinning to herself, Sylver turned back to her own report, letting her spidery handwriting scrawl its way across the page as she painstakingly tried to assemble sentences that were both legible to the eye and that made sense. Like most of the watch, Sylver's education had been erratic at best. Though she may have had a little more education than most, during her teenage years it had mostly been given to her on the fly by the group of travelling actors she had joined in the mountains of Lancre. She had a fine vocabulary, but her handwriting looked like an explosion of cobwebs.

She cast her eye over the pictures. They were as good as she had expected, and would certainly land their suspect the opportunity for a once in a lifetime meeting with Mr Trooper and his skill with knots, Sylver had to wonder why he bothered. What was it about people that made them think that they would get away with things even if hundreds hadn't before? 

"Constable Visit? Constable Dorfl?" Sylver looked up with the other members of her table and saw Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson standing in the doorway wearing an expression she found hard to read. 

"I think I need your help to assess a crime scene. Oh and you too Constable Nightnday. Congratulations by the way. I think you could very much be of some use as well."

"Urm, The commander did just technically send me off duty," tried Sylver, rubbing her eyes. She really needed a long sleep in a proper bed.

"That's nice," replied the captain, "But not quite the response I was looking for. Would you perhaps like to try again?"

Sylver groaned, but only inwardly, and ripped off the best salute she could manage after two nights on the streets, "Yes, sir! Absolutely, sir."

"Good work," Said Carrot, nodding, "I certainly wouldn't be asking you to work when off duty if I didn't think you had something to offer, Constable. This job is 24/8, so if you're not prepared to be dragged out of your bed at all hours, you shouldn't have joined up."

Resignedly, Sylver stood with the other two officers and shrugged on her cape. It was a cold night and the Mists were settling over the city. 

"There goes my celebratory drink," muttered the fire-haired girl half to herself as the little group left through the main doors of Pseudopolis Yard.

"Alcohol is merely a snare to entrap the soul of the unwary," commented Visit in an 'it's all for the best' kind of voice, "for the water of the vine is as the contents of the devil's chamber pot."

Sylver tried, but couldn't quite help the snort of laughter that escaped her. While wondering what distinguished the devil's chamber pot from those of ordinary people she heard Dorfl rumble, "Now That One Makes No Sense."

"Oh come on," argued Visit, "You work most Friday and Saturday nights? You know full well the detrimental effect that wine has on the poor citizens of this city."

"That Is Not What I Meant," clarified the golem, "I Mean That The Theory That Alcohol Can Be Placed In The Same Category As The Contents Of Any Kind Of Chamber pot. How Is This Notion Tested? Have The Contents Of Various Chamber pots Been Tested For Their Palatability?"

Sylver almost doubled over in her attempt to control her amusement at the idea of a load of Omnian priests attending a urine tasting to test the holy word of their god. She staggered a little and smacked straight into a street sign as they turned a corner. She righted herself and looked at the sign to see where Carrot was taking them. They were heading up past the Mended Drum and into a less reputable part of the city. Full of lots of little nooks and unseen patches of darkness for all manner of people to lurk in. Even though each of them carried a lantern the streets still felt menacing to her.

Carrot stopped without warning and and shone his lantern over a door that had recently been locked. You could tell it was now unlocked because the large chain and padlock had been broken with an axe or something similar. It now hung limply from the door. Carrot pushed aside a police barrier and pulled the door open wide. The chain clinked rather sadly as the door creaked on the hinge and letting out a strong smell of...

"peppermint?" asked Sylver, a little confused.

"Sent bomb," explained captain Carrot, "Unfortunately word's got around these days that we have a werewolf in the watch and criminals are getting a little more creative."

The strong odour of mint clawed at Sylver's nostrils as she peered down the stairs. At least her smell had decided to return, if only for a little while.

"Er..." began Carrot with a nervousness that was unfamiliar to Sylver, "I'm sorry if you find this upsetting. Really I am."

Apprehensive now, Sylver followed behind constable Visit, leaving Dorfl to take up the rear position so he could test his weight on the stairs once the rest of them had reached the bottom. 

What she saw was not what she expected. What had she expected? Blood, gore and a side order of the deranged. She hadn't exactly seen a lot of blood in her just under a month of service, but she had seen corpses. Sad things taken from the river during the early morning hours. However what was laying in the dank cellar was somehow a lot, lot worse. She hadn't been prepared for it, but looking at the shards of pottery strewn over the stone floor, Sylver felt an urge to be sick in a way that the corpses had never made her feel.

She seemed to watch Constable Visit from a long way off as he examined the scene before him. He looked perplexed, as if he failed to understand what he saw.

"but this is just cl..." He began, before the reality of the space hit him. The abuse covering the walls, the sad piles on the floor and the crunch as he seta foot down on the floor of the cellar. The sound was horribly loud in Sylver's ears and she winced, her hands balled into fists as if she could fight off the hatred emanating from this tiny underground room. She really didn't want to be in here.

"Stop, Washpot!" The harshness of her voice and the use of a nickname she probably shouldn't have used as a reasonably new recruit surprised even her and she adjusted her tone as Visit stood, one foot in the air. "I mean..., step back a minute, please."

She squatted on the final step and removed her boots, placing them on the step above and moving gently down onto the floor, her feet clad only in her woollen socks now. She placed her lantern down beside her and examined some of the clay pieces, her face close to the ground.

"Who reported it?" asked Constable Visit, as he backed up against a wall to get out of Sylver's way.

"The man who owns the shop above," answered carrot, "A Mr Khadran. He came down to take a look at the place before he let a family of dwarves move in tomorrow. When he saw this he came directly to the yard. Everyone knows it's tricky with golems these days and he didn't want to get caught doing anything wrong I expect."

No, thought Sylver to herself. Immigrants from Klatch, or anywhere, were careful about those sorts of things. They abided by the laws of a foreign land better than the natives did, and paid their taxes too, all because they didn't want to bring shame to their families or their people or give good honest morporkians a reason to single them out. However the city largely had dealt with the problem of racism by simply transferring the hatred somewhere else. Humans didn't have time to hate other coloured humans, because there were all sorts of different kinds of beings to hate now. Whoever this golem had been had learned that lesson the hard way.

Hang on a minute though...

Sylver looked closely at the fragments in front of her. "could I have some more light here?" 

the other watchmen lifted their lanterns over her, so that she knelt in a pool of the closest thing to bright light they could muster. "have you taken iconographs, sir?" she asked urgently, "Can we touch things?"

"Yes. It was the first thing I did," said the captain, as if this was a stupid question.

Sylver picked up pottery shards in her hands, examining them minutely and setting them down in little groups. It was just like one of A E Pessimal's puzzles, only this time with something that once was very much alive and now very much wasn't. 

No, not 'something', she corrected herself. 

Never 'something'. 

Someone.

If you went down the 'something' road you might eventually start to see them as tools or machines and little more. It was one of the most important rules when dealing with the golems. Never treat them like inanimate objects. They are more than just tools, and an important part of reenforcing this in their own minds is in the way they are treated.

No..., not 'someone'. 

'Someones'.

Three. There were three...but Then again....that Couldn't be right could it?

She kept scrabbling and sorting, only dimly aware that Dorfl had knelt beside her to look as well.

Her hands came up with a larger piece of clay and she gasped as she turned it over. It was a finger. She dropped it quickly and it made sad little 'plink plink' noises as it hit the flagstones and bounced away. She steadied herself and sighed.

"There were three,... I think" Sylver stated finally, pointing to the three piles of clay remains she had gathered. "This one was an older one," and she pointed to the pile on the far right with a thin finger. The clay there was mottled with different colours and patterns. "You can tell by the look of it."

Beside her Dorfl nodded his agreement, "They Have Repaired A Lot More Damage And Replaced More Of Their Original Clay. Over Thousands Of Years It Is Not Possible To Retain Ones Initial Appearance. Perhaps This One Was More Than Ten Thousand Years Old. That Is Why There Are So Many Different Colours."

"And the others?" inquired Captain Carrot, looking at the site with a grim expression.

"Definitely two different ones," replied Sylver, looking sideways at the golem for confirmation and pointing at the middle and left piles, "could be more, but at least two. I'd have to look at every single piece of broken pottery in this room to be completely sure. A red one, like Dorfl here and a sandy coloured one. I don't know how old though."

"Three And A Half Thousand Years For The Red And About Two Thousand For The Other." intoned the golem. You didn't argue with golems. They knew about clay.

Sylver got up and edged her way toward the back of the cellar to get a closer look at the graffiti that covered the walls. It was the usual hate slogans you saw around and about the city these days. The kind of things only people with more eyes than braincells could come up with.

'SMASH THE BASTARDS'  
'GOLEMS OUT'  
'BLOOD NOT MUD'

And these were just the most polite. But as Sylver's eye roved across each painted message, something in the back of her mind was waving its arms about and kicking petulantly at the furniture trying to gain her attention. 

"There's a lot not right here," observed Constable Visit from his position by the exit, "I'm no mathematician, but that's not nearly enough clay for 3 golems. Maybe one..."

"This Is Correct," agreed Dorfl once more as he sifted through the clay pieces and lifted out a yellowing scrap of paper which turned out to be the chem of one of the former golems. Further searching turned up another and a slightly damaged clay tablet that was likely the chem of the oldest.

"They weren't free golems..." mused Sylver in a far away voice as the light dawned in her head, "or if they were, they weren't killed here."

She wasn't facing the rest of the group. She was still attempting to figure out what was wrong with the writing on the walls and the smell of the peppermint was really getting to her. 

"Really?" remarked Carrot with interest, "what makes you think that, Constable?"

"hmmm....well," She said, still in that slow, far off voice, "free golems aren't just going to stand around and let a mob smash them up. They don't have to. They know they are allowed to defend themselves. They don't kill because they most likely can't, but there are a lot of really interesting ways of not killing that would involve blood and torn clothes and broken weapons. Remember that drunken mob that cornered Hammer 16 a few weeks ago behind the Mended drum? There were a lot of injuries before they wore him down. Eight of them ended up in the Lady Sybil, and even then they didn't manage to disable him so completely as these." Sylver waved a hand behind her indicating the general level of destruction. "but there's absolutely nothing here. Just clay. No blood, no broken weapons or any sign that anything but a golem was here."

"what about the writing?" insisted the Captain, looking around at the walls.

"There's something seriously wrong about that too," grumbled Sylver, "But I can't quite put my finger on it, sir."

"Nothing wrong with it at all," put in Visit, "It's actually quite good by graffiti standards."

Sylver spun on her heal and pointed a finger at him, her hair dancing and falling around her face as she did so. She snapped her fingers once or twice, looked back at the walls and scanned them quickly. Turning back slowly, she put her palm to her face and sighed. "That's It. No spelling mistakes. None anywhere. Tell me where you see speciesist slurs painted on a wall with correct spelling and no exclamation marks? It even looks neatly done! What kind of mob is that? Not an Ankh-Morpork one, that's for sure."

Captain Carrot surveyed the walls critically, as if daring them to prove her wrong. "That's a very good observation," he said finally, "I don't know many mobs who decide to carry a sent bomb around with them either. And of course Commander Vimes will say that just because their's writing on the walls just means that there's writing on the walls. Can they be rebuilt, Dorfl?"

"I Do not Think So. Too Much Of The Original Clay Is Missing. Golems Cannot Be Rebuilt When The Damage Is This Severe. I Cannot Be Certain Because So Much Is Missing. Perhaps If We Could Find The Rest Of Their Clay."

"But we have all their chems in tact," Carrot objected.

"The Spell That Gives Us Life Is Woven Into Our Clay. I Also Am Forced To Agree With Sylver's Assessment Of The Crime Scene. Trust Golems and True Free Golems Would Not Go Down Without A Fight And There Would Be Many Injuries. Privately Owned Golems Could Be Ordered To Destroy Themselves And Even To Paint These Messages Before They Did."

There was a long silence while presumably each officer imagined this eventuality. Sylver had had quite enough of this cellar and the feeling of closed-in sadness it gave her.

"But why would anyone want to take some of the clay with them?" pondered Constable Visit.

Noone answered.

"And there are only three privately owned golems left in the city,..." sighed the captain in resignation, "Alright. Tomorrow I want you and Constable Visit to go and talk to their owner. If they've been stolen I want to know why it wasn't reported. If she says they are still alive, order her to show you to be sure. If they are, then you can start checking on all the free ones."

"Is this a murder then captain?" asked Visit.

"Do I think it's a murder? Absolutely," replied carrot vehemently, "but does the law? I'm afraid not. The patrician has been very clear. Trust and Free golems are alive, and so destroying them is most definitely murder. However if they are privately owned property at the time, then it is considered destruction of property if done by someone other than the owner. He uses the Golem Trust's own literature as precedent, so we can't really argue this one...."

As Sylver followed the captain and Constable Visit upwards to moderately fresher air, she thought she could have happily argued the point with Lord Vetinari right then and there. The injustice of it all made her blood boil. She gripped the wooden railing hard as she moved up the stairs as she tried to force the rage back inside. She couldn't afford this kind of emotion in her new job. She couldn't let anger get the better of her. Not again.

"What do you want me to do sir?" she asked Carrot, as she stepped out onto the darkened street. She said it for something to say more than anything. She needed to do something normal to stop the white noise in her brain.

"You?" he He said surprised as he looked over at her, "Nothing. You can go home. Get some sleep in a proper bed. You can help Dorfl and Visit tomorrow if they need you."

As they trudged back to the watchhouse, Sylver let herself fall back until she walked beside the massive moving shadow that was Dorfl. Only his glowing eyes were really visible in the moonless night. They didn't speak, but nevertheless there was a feeling unsaid that passed between the two of them. Sylver surreptitiously looked up at him as they went, but she read as little as she always did in the impassive face and it was never easy to discuss emotions with a golem. But his sadness was there, she could tell. It hung over them like a fog. The trust had been his great work, and no matter how much good it had done, this was a very final and brutal end, and it was one he did not deserve.

The anger flared again.

And somewhere in a long forgotten darkened corner of the city, something stirred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More character appearances coming next chapter! promise!


End file.
